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The whole dating situation makes me sick. Or maybe that’s just my physical body; I haven’t been feeling my best lately. Maybe I need more sleep and fewer fucks to give about men.
“I think we added too much Old Bay to this batch,” Raf says, digging through our shared popcorn bucket. I gasp, but he chuckles. “I know. I never thought I’d say those words either.”
We’re sitting on my tiny sofa watching Love Island. My rented room is barely big enough for my queen size bed, a loveseat, circular coffee table, TV, and bookcase. I do have a large closet, which I’m eternally grateful for. My room is cozy and decorated just the way I like it—which is to say whimsical and weird and a little bohemian. Lavender is the most prominent color choice, but there’s fluffy white bedding, mushroom decals adorn the white baseboards, and fairy lights twinkle along the ceiling’s edge. The trickling sound of a tiny plug-in water feature sits atop a floating shelf in the corner; and below on another shelf are essential oils and crystals.
Alright, so I’m a little crunchy. It’s not like I tell my students amethyst and patchouli will solve their problems. It’s not that deep; I’m simply here for the vibes. Meditation on the other hand—that’s one I’ll share with the kids who need it.
As a kid, I never had much choice in my décor. I was too busy taking care of my four siblings and sharing a room with Ivy to have any time to discover what my style was. So now I’m a thirty-one-year-old woman with a funky, ultra-feminine bedroom and I savor it.
There are dried flowers hanging everywhere, as well as fake sunflowers in a vase on my nightstand. It’s a plastic vase, but that’s only because Razzle keeps knocking it over. He has one eye and the other barely works, but somehow, he knows where the flowers are and must disrupt the peace.
Fucking orange cats, man.
Thankfully he’s distracted by Rafael’s generous rubs as he lounges in his lap, so the sunflowers live to see another day. But when a light knock sounds on my door, he abruptly launches himself into the closet to hide.
I live in a family’s home with Sarah, Pete, and their two young children, so whoever is knocking can only be from that very short list of people.
“Come in,” I call.
When the door slowly opens, Sarah’s head pops in. “Hey,” she smiles. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Sarah and I used to be colleagues when we were foster care case workers. But when I moved on to being a children’s mental health outpatient therapist, we kept in touch. When she found out I needed a new place to live a few years ago, she offered her place to me.
“Yeah, come on in.” There’s no more room to sit down, but Rafael gets up and offers his spot while he goes to sit on my bed.
When Sarah sits, I just know she’s about to unload something on me.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” she sighs. “So, I’m just going to get it over with. Pete and I have decided to sell the house. We’re moving back to Harrisburg.”
I stare at her with a slack-jaw. She simply stares back at me with a wan smile, like she knows it’s going to take me a few seconds to register everything.
“So,” I drawl. “You need me to move out.”
She winces. “Unless you want to buy our house.”
Ha. Like I could afford this place. “You and I both know I couldn’t.” I let out a long exhale and look up to the ceiling—the twinkling lights mocking me. With resignation, I ask, “When do you need me out by?”
“June first?”
“That soon?” Raf interjects.
“I’m afraid so,” she says. “I know this is hard. I’m sorry.” Sarah stands up and makes her way to the open door. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time,” she says, gesturing to the pair of us sitting there dumbfounded. “I’ll let you get back to your night. I’m sorry again, Ang.”
“It happens,” I sigh. “Thanks for letting me live here though. It’s been nice.”
“It has,” she says with a smile and then leaves, closing the door gently. My room is quiet for a long moment while I continue to process what happened.
Rafael seems lost in thought too until he jumps up from my bed and lands next to me on the sofa. “Move in with me.”
My head jerks in his direction. “What?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Why not? We’ve lived together in college. What’s so different now?”
I study him. “The difference is we were both broke in college,” I say. “And now you’re a friggin’ chief financial officer and I’m—” I wave to my small room. “I should be living within my means.”
“How is this any different than what your current situation is?” he asks seriously. “You’re living with people who make more money than you and offered you a place to live.”
“Um,” I try to think it through.
